unravel

Well, I got myself thinking about other examples of the whole “back-to-back brilliant songs” thing; it’s a phenomenon that shows how great the artist is, but also says a lot about the power of sequencing an album for maximum impact.  Also, I feel that not every great album lends itself to having a stacked portion of its program—sometimes, the more subtle pleasures of riding emotional crests and waiting…no, anticipating…the next highlight is part of an artist’s charm (for example, those musicians who make consistently good work suffer being branded “utility players” because, in my mind, they never break the chains of their unique mood/style/sub-genre/whatev; still, I love such artists like Andrew Bird, Calexico, Joni Mitchell, and The Notwist).

But, what of my premise for writing this post?  Well, most of the examples that really stick with me are—surprise, surprise—those two-song punches that occur either at the beginning or end of an album (truly exceptional instances occur when an album is simultaneously front- AND back-loaded: The Band is an example, as is Radiohead’s OK Computer).  With how memory works (you usually remember the first and/or last in a series of names, numbers, items, etc.), these artists are wise to not tuck nuggets of masterful craft in the middle third of an album; there is a point at which attention wanes, and the music is allowed to lag.  Even if by design, an artist needs those “filler” moments (not to say I approve of filler, but breaking up the pace with an unexpected detour—you know, an instrumental or a genre experiment—lets the listener get excited all over again once the album gets back on track).

Now.  Concrete examples.  The real fun.  A memorable feat of sequencing that stops me dead in my tracks every time I hear it (see, that’s the beauty: when one song grabs your attention and drives its point home so much that you forget this next wave is primed to blow you over again) is from Iron & Wine’s sophomore album, Our Endless Numbered Days.  Once “Sodom, South Georgia” kicks in, I melt.  This moment always feels so definite; why isn’t this the song to close the album?  But “Sodom” is too personal, too intimate of a breezy whim, where the meditation of the guitar weaving throughout the vocals seems so instant.  As a song, it feels like the most fully realized folk jam in existence; two dudes—each armed with an acoustic guitar—string along melody and harmony and perfectly placed accents and gentle inflection to create a mood that could easily fall apart.  But it doesn’t.

“Passing Afternoon,” the next (and final) song on the album, feels like an anthem by comparison.  Which is why it bowls me over—it builds the mood of “Sodom” into a sturdier beast.  Although, “beast” is hardly an apt metaphor; these songs represent knit cotton blouses, where “Sodom” is a humble, thinning, hand-me-down and “Afternoon” is a cherished relic from a great aunt, with embroidered flowers and dulled (but still surprisingly vibrant) reds and blues and greens.  The magic that “Afternoon” breaths from its lips into the listener is exhilarating like the upswing of a chilly breeze in autumn, before the air is too crisp to enjoy.  Which means: Sam Beam (the principle artist behind the Iron & Wine moniker) fuses a loping guitar melody to a vocal melody that flutters within a small range of pitches, cycling back after every verse to return to the beginning.  Each repetition focuses and amplifies the tender candlelight of hope at the song’s core, building piano into the pulse of the melody like the moon drawing the tide to a full crest.  As the song closes, that original candlelight of hope expands into almost a torch song, where the lament of lost love transcends just a single person and becomes a lament about the impermanence of life.  Simply beautiful.

Moving on from Iron & Wine: I think I might have to save some tasty discourse on other genius combos for later.  But where will this lead me?  I’m thinking of things like these: “Someone Great” followed by “All My Friends” off of LCD Soundsystem’s Sound of Silver; “The Good Life” followed by “El Scorcho” off of Weezer’s Pinkerton; and—possibly the oddest pairing, but undeniably brilliant—“She Said, She Said” followed by “Good Day Sunshine” off of The Beatles’ Revolver.  Now, anyone familiar with the original vinyl version should be able to verify my hunch that those last two songs represent the last song on side one and the first song on side two (nevermind: Wikipedia came to the rescue)…but I think they count just the same, simply because the segue between them feels like it switches my mind through diametrically opposed perspectives.  The perfect yin-yang complements, in the way that they would make the ultimate, most essential single: the A-side has everything the B-side can’t offer, and vice versa.

[Oh, and I’m hoping I can fit some of these artists: Bob Dylan, Built to Spill, The Books, The Clash, Dismemberment Plan, Jens Lekman, The Field, Joanna Newsom…]

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